


if we make it or we don't

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-03-09 04:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13473540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: (we won't be alone)Vignettes of the season four that should have been. 'Is this the Tommy that Polly once told her about – the boy who laughed, before the guns and the tunnels stole the sound from him?'





	1. Birmingham

**Author's Note:**

> So this is going to be a little season 4 AU in which Grace is alive and the bamf we all know she is. I'm going to split it into parts for easier reading, and so I can skip certain episodes if I feel like it. Honestly, this was all inspired by the fact Grace never saw Tommy's room in Birmingham - which is just plain rude. 
> 
> As always the massive f u to both SK and his 'artistic' choices should be quite obvious.

Grace has never seen the room Tommy still has in Birmingham, nor has she ever stepped foot inside its four walls. Their brief dalliance before she left for London, America from there, had taken place entirely in her rooms. If she tries, she can still remember how the rain sounded as it pelted against her windows, Tommy’s bare skin warm against hers, her fingers splayed over his tattoo. But they need a place to stay when they return to Birmingham, after they flee Arrow House in the middle of the night, and when Tommy suggests his room she can find no reason to disagree. She's only glad Tommy didn't dare suggest the house on Watery Lane, for she isn't sure how she and Polly would manage to co-inhabit such a small space. 

Once she has carefully washed the blood from Tommy's face, and after his breathing has steadied, Tommy easily carries Charlie through the house, Grace’s own hands occupied with bags filled with necessary items (and perhaps a few of Charlie’s presents. It is Christmas, after all). Charlie calls for Tommy to stop and grab the family portrait that rests on a side-table, surrounded by Christmas cards. Her husband quirks a brow but complies with their son’s request nonetheless, handing the photograph to Charlie for sake keeping.

Now, they are back in Birmingham. Tommy’s room is smaller than the pantry at Arrow House, but it is safe, if only a little annoying to climb all those stairs. After the door is eased open Tommy carefully deposits Charlie on the bed, their son happily asleep once more. Grace seats herself beside him, smoothing a hand over his hair – darker than her own, but lighter than Tommy’s. She thinks it might darken more over time, until her son is Shelby through and through. A welcome silence settles over the room for a few moments, as they both dwell on what has just occurred and how they are going to deal with it.

Tommy moves to stand in front of the window, a lit cigarette wedged between his lips. As her husband stares out at Birmingham, at the place he thought he had left behind, she hums a soft lullaby under her breath. A hand comes to rest on the soft swell of her belly, still easily disguisable if she so wishes. Less than two years ago she lost the babe she didn’t know she was carrying, the doctors cruelly informing her of her loss when she was still unable to move for fear of reopening the bullet wound they had carefully stitched back together. All she had wanted to do was throw something, hit something, but she could barely even feed herself. She had suspected something, but organising both the charity dinner and the establishment of the institute itself had proven extremely capable of ensuring her suspicions were never able to be confirmed, not until the babe itself had already been lost.

But her belly is once more swelling with life, a fact only Tommy is presently aware of, and this time, she will see the baby safely into the world. At the age of four, Charlie is more boy than baby, and she so longs for the weight of a baby in her arms.

Tommy extinguishes the cigarette under his heel, effectively breaking the tranquillity that has settled over them. In this room, cramped though it might be, they are safe. This is the room in which her husband was unable to escape the sound of shovels scrapping against the wall, and if her presence proves incapable of preventing such a sound from resurfacing, Grace will gladly secure some opium to ensure Tommy never has to suffer through nightmares ever again. Charlie thinks their relocation to Birmingham delightful, having sleepily professed his glee at being able to see all his cousins again. The bitterness that exists between Tommy and the rest of the family, Ada excluded, has apparently affected their son more than they thought, and Grace is once more thankful for the babe she is carrying, for Charlie needs a sibling, needs someone to keep him company.

Grace eases herself up from the bed, careful not to disturb Charlie, and makes her way over to Tommy. His arms open to allow her to nestle against his chest, hands coming to rest over her belly. She inhales deeply, burying her head into his neck. There is dried blood on his collar, but she doesn't care whatsoever. Despite the hour there is still a fire  burning in one of the factories, and it causes the room to have an orange glow, Tommy’s eyes unblinking as he stares out the window at the streets of Birmingham.

“Those damn Italians,” she murmurs, and finds she means her words, curse and all. She thought them rid of the Changrettas the moment Arthur put a bullet through Vicente, but they should have known such a family would have spread overseas. At her words Tommy laughs, a rare sound, and smooths a hand over her hair. It has grown longer and is now unable to hold a tight curl, and she’ll most likely have to cut it when the babe arrives, to prevent tiny fingers from grabbing at it. But for now, she will let her husband run his fingers through it, if that act is able to provide him with the comfort he needs. Mere hours ago he could have died, and yet here he is, alive and whole, his heart beating against her hand.

Tommy’s free hand comes to rest on her scar, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into her skin. She wept when she first saw it, such an angry, jagged line, the redness of it stark against her skin, but now it reassures her, for it proves that they have survived the Changrettas before. They will do so again, the Shelby family united once more. And this time, she will not be confined to her hospital bed. This time, her gun is loaded and neatly stashed away in her purse alongside her favourite lipstick, and she will use it if the need arises. It seems her ‘no guns in the house’ rule is never going to be abided by, but if that is the price she must pay for her family’s survival, Grace will gladly pay it thrice over.  

As they stare out the window, Birmingham quieter than she has ever known it to be, a realisation washes over her, one lost in their hurry to leave Arrow House. She had been just about to retire when Tommy burst into their bedroom, face covered in blood, his blue eyes bright with adrenaline. “Merry Christmas Tommy,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to the underside of her husband’s jaw. Tommy’s mouth quirks upward only faintly, but that is more than enough.

“Get some rest Grace,” her husband orders, gesturing towards the bed. Charlie has shifted somewhat and is now curled up against the wall, chest rising and falling rhythmically.She nods in agreeance, for exhaustion has taken root deep in her bones. The sun will rise in only a few hours, and hopefully in the light of a new day they will be able to make plans on how best to deal with the Italians.

But first, before moving, she queries, “Where will you sleep?”

Tommy looks at her, face expressionless. He shakes his head at her, and explains, “Those bastards won’t be sleeping. So neither will I.”

And in the morning when she wakes, Charlie curled into her side, there her husband is, still standing at the window. 


	2. Brothers

John is dead. Grace can barely make sense of it, for she has never thought of John, cocky, self-assured John, as being susceptible to such a thing as death. If she were an outsider making a judgement between the brothers, based purely on the numerous children who call ( _called_ ) John their father, she would think John the epitome of life itself, Esme’s arms always either cradling a baby or laced protectively over her swollen belly. 

Arthur is the Shelby brother she has always imagined as teetering somewhere in between life and death, inching closer and closer to his grave every time he inhaled too much snow or drank himself into a rage. But Linda’s presence has tempered him somewhat, Arthur now less inclined to partake in his numerous vices. Grace might still eye the newest Shelby with a wariness she suspects shall forever be known to her, a remnant from her past life, but she can and will freely admit that Linda has altered Arthur. Whether such an alteration will prove permanent remains to be seen, but for Arthur’s sake she certainly hopes so.

No matter her previous thoughts still the fact remains, unchangeable - John has died, the Italians emptying bullet after bullet into his body. His body is riddled with bullet holes, although the coroner has determined that he was most likely dead after the first few shots. And Michael might die too, if the doctors prove incapable of staunching his bleeding. It has been mere days since they fled Arrow House, and yet the Italians have already managed to strike at the very heart of their family. Polly is distraught in her grief, furious in a way Grace imagines she would be if it were Charlie lying there motionless, red blood seeping through his bandages. In this, she can sympathise with Polly, for she knows what it is like to lose a child. At least Polly is able to demonstrate her anguish, her fury. All Grace had been able to do was weep, unable to comprehend how it could ever be that a life had been taken from her before she ever truly knew it existed.

Tommy is another matter entirely. When they first received the news, Finn sucking in desperate breaths after his hurried run from Watery Lane, her husband had looked at her, wide-eyed and motionless. She thinks he must have thought he was dreaming, for it wasn’t until she placed her hand on his shoulder that a hiss of air escaped his lips, his jaw clenching and unclenching with barely controlled rage. In front of everyone he is the picture of stoicism, mind constantly whirling with plans and potential allies to align themselves with. The Italians believe themselves triumphant, but Tommy would challenge that.

“I’ve hired a man to do the killing,” he tells her, in a brief moment they have managed to snatch together away from the chaos, Tommy’s room quiet and seemingly another entire world away. Ada is looking after Charlie, their son happily playing with his cousin, and Tommy has smoked two cigarettes in under a minute, shoulders slumped forward in a private display of defeat she knows no one else shall ever be privy to.

When he looks sideways at her, the expression clear on his face makes her realise that this decision is partly for her benefit, Tommy’s best attempt to abide by her ‘no guns in the house’ rule. Her husband isn’t aware of her choice to do away with such a notion, at least for the time being, and so he has decided to hire someone to take care of the Italians for them, to ensure none of their hands become as bloody as Tommy’s were on Christmas Eve. She can only hope the maids managed to clean up the kitchen, and that the tiles aren’t too tarnished.

Grace simply nods, smoothing a hand over the back of Tommy’s neck. “I think that is for the best,” she murmurs, his hair bristly underneath her fingertips. And she means her words, for the further Tommy removes himself away from the killing, the better it shall be for everyone. He does not need to once more suffer through the act of taking a man’s life, nor should he be putting his own life at risk by engaging in such an action.  She suspects Arthur might have something to say, but she knows Linda shall be able to talk him around. It will be better for Arthur too, for she does not know how he manages to cope with the guilt of taking so many lives. Even though it was years ago, even though she was overwhelmed by rage at the time, even though the sensible part of herself knows it was her life or his, her heart still sometimes twinges when she remembers the blood on her hands, the man slumped against the wall. It will be better for them all as a family if they place some degree of separation between them and the killing that must be done. If there are people they can hire who are willing to commit such an act then that is all for the better.

Tommy introduces Aberama Gold to the rest of the family at John’s funeral, having decided it was wise to use the smoke as a literal signal for whoever might dare to attack them. As the smoke from John’s funeral pyre continues billowing into the open sky above them, an argument erupts, Polly disgusted by Tommy’s actions. Grace resists the urge to verbalise her thoughts, for Tommy and Polly are more than capable of arguing amongst each other without her joining in. No matter what Polly might think, it is better than this Aberama Gold does the killing. The Italians were able to take John from them, and Grace would have it so that none of their lives are placed in similar danger.

Aberama Gold does not fit neatly into Grace’s idea of what a hired killer should look like, but he has brought with him two bodies draped over the backs of horses. Despite his appearance he has proven to be immensely capable at fulfilling his duty, and with his help, she thinks they will be able to dispose of the Italian threat neatly, and quickly. But they will forever be without John, who always had a toothpick wedged in between his lips, who used to tease Tommy about her presence in the Garrison. Without him something indescribable will always be missing, and Tommy will see to it that the Italians are sufficiently punished before being granted the release of death.

But in death it seems there is also to be life, for Lizzie soon announces the presence of a child in her belly. The child, she tells them, was fathered by John – a final, lingering memory of the brother they all thought death couldn’t touch.


	3. Boyhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is currently my favourite instalment of this little series, so I really do hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3

Tommy does not openly share the photo with her, but Grace knows she should not consider that a sign of evasiveness, for even after two years of marriage her husband is still often slow to share things with her. She finds the item stashed away in the inner pocket of one of his many suit jackets, a surprising addition to Tommy's usual collection of forgotten debris. Feeling incredibly like she is snooping, she carefully withdraws the photo, her free hand clutching a half-finished cigarette and a crumpled pound note. All she wanted to do was empty Tommy’s pockets before she took his clothes down to be washed, and now Grace feels as though she has invaded her husband’s privacy.

But curiosity overwhelms her and she lets the cigarette and money fall from her hands in favour of holding the photograph steady in front of her, eyes narrowing as she studies it intently. There, staring back at her, is Tommy. A younger Tommy, certainly, but she can still see the man she wakes beside every morning etched into this version of Thomas Shelby. Standing beside this Tommy is a girl, dark-haired and beautiful, her gaze piercing despite the tarnished quality of the photograph. If Grace squints, she thinks the girl looks a little like Lizzie.

 _Wild lovers by the seaside. June 15 th, 1913. _The words are written in a woman’s handwriting, and in them she recognises a woman’s tendency to note down the specifics of a memory before it could be ravaged by time. Hasn’t she done the same to the photos taken of her and Tommy in New York? _In front of the Statue of Liberty, September 1923._

The photographed version of Tommy has his hair slicked back from his face, as if he wishes to appear older than he actually is, to be taken more seriously than anyone who ever wish to consider someone of his background. His clean-shaven face hinders such a desire, his jawline still holding a hint of youth. 1913, the handwritten inscription reads. A whole year before the war then, a whole year before the entire world changed. Is this the Tommy that Polly once told her about – the boy who laughed, before the guns and the tunnels stole the sound from him? In 1913 Tommy would have been barely twenty-three, a young man trying his best to make his mark on a world determined to quash such aspirations.

Is this girl his first love? Is this the girl he thought he would marry, promising her as such before he went off to war? Did he promise to return to her and make her a Shelby, raise a family with her? Grace stumbles back blindly until she reaches the edge of the bed, sitting herself down gently upon it as her mind whirls with possibilities. She has always known next to nothing about Tommy’s life before the war, but her utter lack of knowledge has never infuriated her quite so much before.

In 1919 she had come to Birmingham and walked into the Garrison on Campbell’s orders, making herself an essential part of Tommy’s life and falling in love with him despite herself. She can still remember what Harry said to her that first week – that after he came back from France, Tommy hadn’t wanted anyone at all. And she can still remember what Tommy told her, the rainy night he put a bullet in his horse’s head, the night she sang to him, entirely unsure as to whether the droplet sliding down his cheek was from sorrow or merely residue from the storm. _Already broken_. At the time she had merely thought he was referencing the war, but now she isn’t entirely sure. This photograph has ignited a curiosity in her Grace isn’t certain she’ll be able to stifle. She wants to know everything about this woman, and what happened to her.

And part of her wants to know - is she is a consolation prize? Does Tommy sometimes look at their son and wishes that Charlie’s hair were darker? Does he dream of this woman and wake disappointed that it is Grace lying beside him?

“Greta.” She hadn’t heard Tommy come in, and her initial reaction to his presence over her shoulder is to hide the photograph clutched in her hands, to deny her knowledge of it. But she supresses such a desire, looking up at her husband. “Her name was Greta,” he tells her, as he smooths a wayward strand of blonde hair behind her ear, the metal of his wedding band cool against her skin. He has never taken his ring off since the morning they wed, although she often finds she must reprieve her fingers of the weight of hers, if only for a moment. As always, the feeling of it against her skin settles her.  

“Greta,” she repeats. _Grace. Greta. Greta. Grace._ Her heart twists involuntarily, without due reason, and she forces herself to breathe.

Tommy nods, exhaling loudly. He comes to sit beside her, taking one of her hands in his. “She died,” he utters. She hasn’t prodded for more information, but her husband is apparently in need of divulging. “I held her in my arms, nursed her myself day and night for three months, and she still died. The day after she was buried I told Arthur and John I was going to France, and they told me I wasn’t going without them. Polly packed us all jam sandwiches for the trip to London, and Ada cried for a week after we left.” Tommy inhales sharply, brow furrowed as he reminisces. “And then when I held you in my arms the night of the benefit and you wouldn’t stop bleeding, I couldn’t stop thinking that it was happening all over again, that the woman I loved was dying in my arms and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”

She smooths her thumb gently over his skin, a poor reassurance of her presence. It has been two years and yet there are still nights when Tommy wakes, arms flailing, convinced that she has died and that her figure beside him is merely the result of his mind playing a trick on him. When that happens, she has to hold him steady until his breathing returns to normal, until his eyes are able to focus on her face.

“I’m here Tommy,” she murmurs, words she has said countless of times, whispered in the darkness. “I’m alive.”

Tommy offers her a swift nod in response, eyes closing briefly. “She wanted to change the world,” he says. “She had all these ideas and plans, but none of that mattered when she couldn’t stop coughing up blood.” He looks at her, gripping her hand tightly, and expels an acerbic laugh as he remembers. “Her family hated me. They didn’t approve of me, of the Shelby name, and after Greta died any inroads I’d managed to make quickly disappeared. They tried to prevent me from attending the funeral, but I snuck in, and no one was going to make a scene in church.”

“Italian?” Grace queries. Tommy nods, and she has to wonder, despite herself – what would be different now, if Greta were still alive? Would Tommy be better off with an Italian connection, familial allies against the Changrettas? She has nothing of the sort to offer him, her family far too civilised to associate themselves with gang warfare. She is fully aware that even after two years there are those who still do not wholeheartedly approve of her marriage, and the majority of her family are somehow still convinced that Charlie is Clive’s son, although Charlie’s resemblance to Tommy grows stronger with every passing day.

“I am sorry for your loss,” is all Grace feels as if she should say, all she can manage to say, but the words feel foreign as they leave her mouth. Tommy looks at her, brow furrowed, and cups her jaw in his free hand, fingers stroking across her cheek. The baby kicks in her belly, a brief fluttering but ample reassurance that no matter what, no matter who a twenty-three year old Tommy Shelby may have loved, it is she who will be by his side for the rest of his life.

“Mrs. Shelby,” Tommy says, a teasing lilt to his voice. “Are you in need of reassurance of my love?”

“Perhaps I am,” she replies, lips quirking up into a smile. Tommy’s hand shifts down onto her belly, her bump now far too big to cup in one hand. The baby shifts under the weight of Tommy’s palm, and her husband smiles, looking downward at her belly.

“You,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple and drawing her closer to him, “are my wife. And you will be my wife until the day I die – which, I promise you Grace, will not be anytime soon, no matter what that damned Luca Changretta thinks himself capable of.” He tilts her chin up and kisses her, his mouth warm against hers. He is need of a shave, but she does not mind the feeling of his stubble against her cheeks. “I love you,” he says as he draws away, voice quiet.

She brushes her hand against his cheek, a smile easy to spread across her lips. “I love you,” she reiterates. Grace looks at her husband, her hand resting against his cheek, and tells him, “I think a part of me loved you from the first moment I saw you.” She laughs, shaking her head as she remembers. “Although you certainly challenged that the first few weeks I was in Birmingham, didn’t you Tommy?”

Tommy merely silences her with his mouth, pressing her softly against the bed. They have just over an hour until Charlie is due to return from Polly’s house, and her husband seems determined not to waste a second of that time, whispering his love into her ears as his body does the same against hers.    


	4. Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A THOUSAND AND ONE apologies for the lateness of this update. I recently returned to uni for the year, and between that and work I've been left with very little time to write. Still, that's no excuse, and I can only hope that you enjoy this update!!!! Thank you for all the incredibly lovely comments you've left on this fic so far, they really do mean the absolute world to me! <3 <3 <3 
> 
> Also, you all need to watch this FANTASTIC Tommy/Grace video I found ASAP - https://vimeo.com/222957667 
> 
> I legitimately cried after watching, no shame at allllll. Tbh, I'm tearing up thinking about it right now.

The day Luca Changretta plans to take her husband’s life, she and Charlie wait for Tommy to return, eventually venturing to Polly’s house when the time refuses to cease dragging slowly on. There, Charlie is easily distracted, playing with toys that Grace suspects were last used to occupy Finn, a collective jumble of figurines which have been worn down by countless hands touching them over the years. The same cannot be said for her. Polly wordlessly offers her a cup of tea, Grace carefully cradling the porcelain, but sipping the hot liquid does little to prevent her mind from racing.

She was more than a little surprised when Polly’s invitation came, Charlie eagerly bounding off the bed the moment he heard her repeat the words back down into the phone, more a query than an affirmation. The truce brokered weeks ago between Tommy and the family had extended to her as well, but there would always be some lingering degree of animosity between her and Polly, a feeling born out of her treachery and deceit. Tommy might grumble but Grace still cannot fault Polly for feeling such a way, not when her actions had threatened the entire family. And despite Polly’s feelings, Grace cannot fault her for the way she treats Charlie, loving him boundlessly despite her contempt for his mother. She knows she will treat the baby the exact same way, and that is far more than what can be said about any of Grace’s own family.

Now, it seems there is nothing to do besides wait. Tommy is entirely aware of the danger he is headed into, and she can only hope that his newfound knowledge sees him safely returned back to them. He is alone, against Luca Changretta and surely a few of his best men, but he is heavily armed and knows Birmingham better than they could ever hope to. Grace drains her tea and places the empty cup gently down on the side-table, Charlie playing at her feet. Polly is peering out the window, curtain effortlessly drawn back, and Grace knows she is waiting for a sign. What they will do if that sign is bad, Grace isn’t so sure. Fleeing is surely the most logical and obvious decision, but she supposes Arthur will have something to say against that. Even if some of them loathe to admit it, Tommy might be the only thing holding them all together, and if he falls Grace suspects that they might all tumble down after him.

But he will not fall. He will not fail. Surely if she thinks it enough she can will such a thought into existence. How many times has Tommy thought himself a dead man walking, only to escape relatively unscathed? Epson, nearly three years ago, when he found himself in a field believing the grave there to have been dug for him. Grace had been unabashedly aloof when he came to her at the Ritz, uncharacteristically pleading with her to listen as he told her what had occurred. She had already half decided that her only course of action would be to convince Clive the baby was his, something she now knows would have been near impossible judging by how alike Charlie looks like his father. And she was furious that Tommy had made her wait for hours at the racetrack until she finally gave into her exhaustion and left, furious over her interaction with May Carleton and the worry that had taken root deep inside her, furious that she was going to have to remain in a marriage she didn’t want just to ensure there was no stain on her child. Some of her fury faded away the moment she opened the door and saw Tommy, and by the end of his somewhat frantic spiel she had forgiven him entirely, hands cupping his jaw and mouth firmly pressed against his.

Polly lets the curtain fall back into place, exhaling loudly. Grace wants to offer her some words of comfort, but she knows they are not wanted. It is silent company that Polly wants, not meaningless conversation. She supposes Polly is uncertain whether her attempts at being a double agent will be successful, or whether Tommy shall pay the ultimate price for her deception. It had been an intelligent idea – convince Luca Changretta that Tommy’s life was of little concern to you, ally yourself with him as a means of saving yourself and your son, devise a trap that you assure him shall be successful, and then, at the last moment, inform Tommy of your actions. Grace isn’t sure of the success of its execution though. She knows Polly shall be distraught if Tommy does not survive – the Shelby children had replaced her own when they had been taken away, and Polly had been more of a parental figure in their lives than her brother had been.  For Polly’s sake, for her sake, for the sake of the family, Tommy has to survive. There is no other alternative, and she smooths a hand over her belly as a futile means of calming her now racing nerves.

She contemplates asking Polly for another cup of tea, purely so she has something to occupy her hands with, when a car door slams, the sound echoing through the eerily quiet street. Heart beating a drum in her chest, Grace almost leaps up from her chair, Polly cautiously drawing the curtain back. The breath that Polly expels less than a heartbeat later sending relief flooding through her veins. “It’s Tommy,” Polly elaborates, somewhat needlessly.

When Grace eases the door open to let him in, he inhales deeply at the sight of her, pressing a hand momentarily to her cheek. Still, there is anger in his eyes, and blood on his fingertips. Charlie reaches for him, but Tommy pulls away from their son, swiftly wiping the blood away with his handkerchief. It is an unspoken rule, one that has existed from the first time Tommy engaged in business three weeks after Charlie was born. He will never touch their son whilst the remains of what he has just done still linger on his skin. He will maintain the illusion that he is nothing but a legitimate businessman for as long as he can, until the time comes when such an illusion becomes reality – or, possibly, it becomes necessary to involve Charlie in his dealings. Grace still hopes, perhaps somewhat foolishly, that given enough time it is the former which shall prove true.

Once his hands are relatively clean, he allows Charlie to clamber into his lap, their son chattering about the toy clutched in his hands. Grace seats herself down on the remaining armchair, hands laced tightly over her belly, content to watch. There will be time enough for questions later, but judging from Tommy’s poised stature and the icy fury that lingers in his eyes, despite his best efforts Luca Changretta still lives. 

The family meeting that follows is a slightly tense affair. She leaves Charlie playing happily with his inherited toys, and stands tall by Tommy’s side even though her feet protest such a decision. Grace expects there will be criticism from the family over Tommy’s actions, and she shall not abandon him at such at time. In this, as in all matters, she is by his side.  Later, she will wash the residual blood from under Tommy’s fingernails. When she has finished, the small basin of water now a murky reddish colour, she presses his wet hand against the firm bump that is her belly. “He will die,” she promises, smoothing a hand over Tommy’s brow. “Before this baby is born, Luca Changretta shall be dead, and we, Tommy, we will be safe.”

Tommy nods, leaning into the palm she places against his cheek.

“Come to bed,” she tells him. It takes some effort, but eventually they manage to slot themselves in beside Charlie, Grace curled tightly up against Tommy. She falls asleep to the feeling of his heartbeat against her splayed palm, and when she wakes, his eyes are closed, his chest resting and falling rhythmically. One of Charlie’s arms nudges her in her back, and not to be forgotten, the baby flails around in her belly. Grace allows herself a soft smile, before closing her own eyes once more.  

It might be morning, but the Italians can wait.


	5. Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you all SO SO SO MUCH for all your support and love for this little story. I love you all x1000. 
> 
> That being said, please enjoy the final instalment of this season 4 AU. I'm certain to be back with another PB fic very soon, but if you have specific ideas or thoughts on what I should write next, just let me know! <3

It is quite possibly the worst time for her to be in labour, but yet here Grace is, her rotund and firm belly contracting as her husband makes his final move against Luca Changretta. Perhaps it is the stress of the situation, or perhaps it has simply come time for the baby to arrive, her calculations for a later date proving to be incorrect. For whatever reason, from the moment she eased herself upright this morning she was aware of the pains in her belly, and she knew instantly that it was time, clutching at the bed underneath her as another contraction passed through her.

Tommy isn’t aware of the drastic change in her condition, her husband having already left in the early hours of the morning as Charlie and her were still sleeping - or rather, as Grace was feigning sleep, watching her husband ready himself through half-closed eyelids, desperate to catch what could be her last sight of him. Ada wants nothing more than to send someone to tell him, but Grace’s pains are infrequent and they both know there might be hours yet before the baby decides to make its way into the world. And if she is honest she would rather Tommy miss the birth altogether than be distracted during such an integral time, although she suspects her husband might have something to say if such a thing does end up occurring.

For now though, Ada’s company and a hot bath is more than enough. Slowly discarding her figure of the nightgown stretched tight over her belly, Grace slips into the water somewhat ungainly, causes the water to ripple almost incessantly as she settles herself. Charlie has been sent along to Polly’s, Linda having thankfully volunteered herself to watch the children during this time. When the time comes, someone will send for a midwife, but she and Ada surely share enough knowledge of childbirth between them to see her safely through this part. Her pains are infrequent, her discomfort minimal, and in this moment she is more worried for Tommy than she is for herself. His plan is sound and will undoubtedly be well executed, but in such matters there is always a risk, one she cannot stop thinking about no matter how Ada tries to distract her with idle conversation.

The water soothes her aching back, and when her belly clenches, Ada grips her hand tightly, smoothing her hair away from her forehead. If it were at all possible, she would stay in the bath until it comes time to push, but Grace knows the water will soon turn cold and the idea of lying in a cold, bloody bath is far from appealing. Charlie was born in Tommy’s bedroom at Primrose Hill, and this baby shall be born in Birmingham, in this tiny room as the factories belch smoke outside the window. Its father shall soon return to them triumphant, the Italians dealt with once and for all. The scar below her collarbone is stark in the bright sunlight, the water withering the tips of her fingers, and Grace inhales deeply, squaring her shoulders as the pain washes over her once more.

Once it has subsided, words spill out of her mouth, ones she never thought she would ever speak. A part of her wishes she could take them back the moment she utters them, heart thudding with fear. “It was me who told the police where Freddie was. The night Karl was born,” Grace clarifies. “Not Tommy.”

She expects rage. She expects pure fury, for although Freddie has been buried for nigh on five years now, Ada is still a Thorne. She will always be a Thorne, even if she one day decides to allow another man into her life.  But Ada merely nods, squeezing Grace’s hand tightly. Her eyes are bright, the sun having made its way to the middle of the sky. She and Tommy share the same eyes, and as she looks into them, Grace finds comfort in the shade.

“I know,” is all Ada says. She offers Grace a slight shrug of her shoulders, ladling water over her back. Nothing more, it seems, needs to be said. Ada has always known about her deception, and aside from Finn she is perhaps the only one in the family who has never judged her for it. Now she knows about the terrible act Grace committed against her, when she was at her most vulnerable, and she would not be unjustified to be angry about it. But instead of storming out of the room, Ada simply shifts to better let the water cascade down Grace’s back, the warm liquid a welcome balm to her aching lower back.

Grace wants to prod Ada, wants to query her about why she is not furious over her betrayal, but the urge to push has now become far more compelling than her desire to understand Ada’s lack of anger. Clutching at Ada’s proffered hands she shakily stands up, shivering involuntarily as her body is exposed to the cool air. It takes them a few moments, but eventually they manage to manoeuvre her onto the bed, Grace breathing heavily all the while. Ada motions to move away, presumably to call out for someone to send for the midwife, but Grace tightens her grip on Ada’s hand and refuses to let go, belly contracting. She sucks in a shallow breath through a tightly clenched jaw, shifting herself further up on the bed.

It took over two hours for Charlie to be born, Tommy waiting downstairs the entire time. She can still remember the scent of all the cigarettes he smoked as she pushed, unable to help herself from wailing. It takes mere minutes for their daughter to be born, and Tommy is not waiting downstairs, but there is still the scent of smoke, blowing in through the open window. And there is Ada, steadfast by her side, offering a hand to clutch as Grace pushes, moping the sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her cardigan, nestling the baby in her arms as she slips into the world.

“A girl, Grace,” Ada pronounces, as if she could be anything else. Grace utters a sound that is half-sob, half-laugh, arms opening to accept her baby. Her hair is matted to her scalp with blood, her skin red raw, but she is entirely perfect. Ada presses a cool compress against her forehead, Grace’s chest still heaving from the exertion of her final few pushes.

“Hello there,” Grace murmurs, stroking the baby’s cheek tenderly. She hopes Tommy returns soon, for such a beauty needs her father to look upon her. The baby looks up at her, mouth opening to emit more of a squawk than a scream, and Grace smiles. Tommy will be back soon, and what a gift she shall have to present him with.

When Ada asks her if she has a name chosen, Grace finds it easier than breathing to say, “Margaret Ada.” Maggie, for short. Ada looks at her, brow quirked in a manner than is so similar to her brother than Grace nearly laughs at the familiarity of it, but she will not hear anything of it. It is a wonderful name, and it suits the baby in her arms. She washes the blood away from her daughter’s skin almost reverently, an action she has performed for her father countless times. Her fine wisps of hair are light, but so too were Charlie’s. Her eyes are Tommy’s, bright blue and rounder than the moon, but Grace thinks she sees something of her own face in the curve of her daughter’s mouth, the shape of her brow. No matter who she takes after, she is beautiful, and Grace knows that Tommy is most definitely going to have a conniption or two as she grows.

Once the baby is sufficiently cleaned, Ada carefully does the same to Grace, piling her hair high on top of her head as she wipes the residual blood from her skin. The baby rests beside her in the bed all the while, apparently utterly exhausted by her entrance into the world. Ada pours them both a glass of champagne, and whilst it is not the same bottle Grace offered to Tommy the night Karl was born, the memory of that night still causes her heart to twinge, no matter if Ada has forgiven her for her treachery. She cannot imagine the anguish Ada experienced that night, her newborn son in her arms and her husband cruelly snatched away. If Tommy does not return, Grace isn’t sure she shall be able to move from this bed. Ada may have forgiven her, but a part of Grace shall forever be trying to make amends for the actions of her past. At this very moment, she is terrified that her husband shall not return, that he will prove unsuccessful in his endeavour and shall be lost to them all, their daughter never able to meet the man who had helped give her life.

But he does return. There is blood on his skin and a subtle shake to his hands, but Tommy is whole, and he is safe.

The loud knock on the door causes Ada to open the door cautiously, unable to see exactly who wants to enter but desperate to protect Grace and the baby nonetheless. Grace tries her best to hide the baby, in case the man in question is Luca Changretta. Such an action will surely prove pointless, but she will protect her child for as long as she can.  Tommy might be gone, but she is not useless. She has never been useless.

But it is Tommy who meets her eyes, not the elusive Luca Changretta. He exhales audibly at the sight of her, and she cannot stop her chin from trembling slightly as she meets his gaze. Ada closes the door behind her, silently excusing herself from their presence. Tommy says nothing, but he doesn’t need to. There will be time enough for talk later, once he is clean and his mind has stopped whirling.

It is time though, for introductions. Carefully, as so not to wake her, Grace shifts the baby into her arms. It seems as though her slightly dishevelled appearance and Ada’s presence were not enough to clue Tommy onto what exactly had transpired whilst he was otherwise engaged, for he nearly startles at the sight of their daughter. Cautiously, he comes to sit on the edge of the bed, a clean finger stretching out to trace down their daughter’s arm, her fists tightly curled up as if in anticipation for a fight.

“When?” Tommy queries, voice somewhat hoarse.

“A few hours ago,” Grace tells him, offering him a smile. He does not return it, but Grace doesn’t mind. It will be a few days before the worry is fully etched out of his brow, before the firm set of his mouth is able to loosen. “I was in perfectly capable hands.”

Tommy nods, letting the baby curl her fingers around his proffered index finger. “Have you named her?” he asks, all business. Grace longs for him to shed his jacket and take the baby into his arms, but she knows his mind is most likely still whirling from previous events, his hands still feeling the weight of a gun in his hands. She wants to know exactly what happened, so she can better support him, but she will not discuss such matters when their daughter is between them, mere hours old and entirely innocent.

Grace looks at him, nodding. “Margaret Ada,” she says, the baby in her arms blinking in response. “Maggie, for short.”

Like his sister only hours previous, for a moment Tommy appears as if he wishes to question the name, but wisely he says nothing, aware that questioning her shall do nothing to change her already resolute mind. “Margaret Ada,” he repeats. “Hello.”

It might be because she has just given birth, it might be because here her husband is, safely returned to her once more, or it might be a combination of these last few months of utter worry and concern, but in that moment Grace feels as if she could weep. Tommy must notice the tears that pool in her eyes, ones she refuses to let fall, for he leans forward to press a kiss against her temple, the baby mewing indignantly at being squashed between her parents.

“Thank you,” Tommy murmurs softly against her skin.

Thank you, she thinks, for coming back to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I went against my own canon in previous fics with the baby's name, but eh.


End file.
